I'm With the Band
by Yamiko Number 7
Summary: Yes, another one of the The sinners are a rock band stories...but I'm having fun, wo who cares? Rated T for reasons that will be explained inside.


**I'm With the Band**

**By: Yamiko #7**

Hello all! Yes, here I am writing yet another one of the semi-ubiquitous "The-Sinners-Are-A-Rock-Band-Go-From-There" Chrno Crusade fics…but I'm gonna have fun with it. (After all, why else would I be writing if not to have fun?)

And for those of you who are wondering where in seven hells the ninth chapter of "The Source of Power" could possibly be…well, I'm having problems writing it. What I originally wanted to do will no longer work, so I have to plan out something new. Y'know, amongst the insanity, projects, practice exams, and general crap that composes IB Hell Month (i.e. April). I'm working on it, I promise…just not as quickly as I would have liked.

As for specifics for this fic, here's what you need to know: This takes place in present time, year 2006 or thereabouts. I don't know a heck of a lot about guitars, so if I make a mistake please tell me. (I appreciate it greatly.) And, people, it's about a band; therefore, I will talk about sex. Not graphically (more like euphemistically), but enough so that this ranges towards the more mature "T" rating. If it were a manga, it would have the nice little 16+ sticker on it. No plastic wrap, though.

Okay, enough of that. Here's the story!

* * *

_Chapter One: I Wanna Be a Member of Fall Out Boy_

"What are you doing?"

I sigh and look up at my "friend" standing in my doorway. "What does it look like I'm doing?" If he's smart, he'll notice my less-than-stellar mood and won't answer that.

"I'll tell you what it _doesn't_ look like. Practice for our concert tomorrow. Which is what you _should_ be doing."

Now I have proof, and an increased level of incredulity that this idiot ever finished high school.

I bite back my retort – "Yes, _mother_," – and open my guitar case. I haven't had Clapton out of the case for months, and now I have to put it away again.

Clapton is my electric guitar. I saved money from summer jobs since seventh grade (and really came to hate my lawn mower in the process). I finally bought it my sophomore year in high school, and I've had it ever since. If I'd bothered to stay within the confines of the educational system, I'd be a college sophomore now. I guess that makes it four years.

Yes, I named my guitars. The bass' name is Hendrix. I know it's weird, but at this point, I've stopped caring.

I grab a bag of guitar strings and hold them in my teeth as I undo the clasps on Hendrix's case. I believe in zipper cases about as much as I believe in rap and metal – not at all.

I look back towards my door. Aion's still standing there. This is not helping my mood any. "So why are you still here? I hear the groupies are having a bonfire tonight: you should go join them." Sarcasm is my favorite non-lethal weapon, and about the only one I know how to use.

"Really?"

Good Lord, he actually believes me.

"Well, I'll go then." Ah, yes, Mister Lead Vocals going to go meet his adoring fans. Gag me. "But," he points an accusing finger at me, "you need to practice. Go do it for someone else and have them vouch for you. I want to know you practiced." He turns to leave (finally). "I will be back…before tomorrow morning."

It's three p.m. Well, this should keep him out of my hair for the rest of the day.

"Have fun," I call in the most annoying sing-song voice I can muster before slamming my door shut and retrieving the bag of guitar strings I dropped when the sarcasm started.

I sigh again, sling the guitar strap over my shoulder, reopen the door, and head off to find someone willing to hear me practice.

* * *

We formed a band our first summer out of high school. Aion couldn't play any instrument to save his immortal soul, so by default he ended up lead vocals (not that he's complaining. Guess who gets all the attention?). Rizelle plays electric guitar. According to Grand Master Aion, a "real band can't have two electric guitars," so I got relegated to base. Shader, the tech-savvy one, works the synthesizer. (Drummer? Who, us? You must be mistaken.) Genai, who won't shut up and can't be ignored, became our publicist of sorts. Viede is the manager, though he's more like a secretary (booking events) and a babysitter (keeping us from killing each other) all in one.

His job is not made any easier by the monstrous crush Rizelle has on Aion. Aion knows it, too, but he just strings her along with the idea that "I'll date her…someday." The one time I pointed out that this could potentially be a very bad idea, using the late No Doubt as an example, he looked at me and said, "What's No Doubt?"

He's in a band and he doesn't know who No Doubt is. Was.

And the word of the day today, kiddies, is "pathetic."

But back on topic…

We're basically a college band (or we would be if any of us were in college…), popular with the universities up and down the New England coast. Aion says it's only a matter of time until we get "discovered." I think that's bull. Especially when we don't have any of our own songs – we just cover songs by other bands.

Which, at the moment, is one of the reasons I'm so royally pissed off. Our latest song? "The Reason" by Hoobastank. I wouldn't mind so much, except that the bass guitar part consists of three notes repeated about two hundred times apiece. They're all quarter notes, too – absolutely no variation in rhythm whatsoever. All I need to know is when to change notes. I could do this song in my sleep. Nearly did the other night.

And Mister Charisma still thinks I need to practice. Right.

I really wish I weren't the bassist for this band. Bassists never get noticed. We're always just "the guy in the back with the weird guitar." The one and only exception to this rule is Fall Out Boy, whose bassist is also their lead singer. Striking a blow for three-stringed guitars everywhere (yay).

I wouldn't mind being bassist so much if I were allowed to do something else. Background vocals, for example. Aion shot that one down, though – he said my voice "wasn't that great."

And this was where I got really mad.

I was in Singsations in high school – a sixteen-person audition-only vocal jazz choir – for three years, something that was unheard of. I was Don Quixote in _Man of La Mancha_ and Sky Masters in _Guys and Dolls_. You don't get all that by having a voice that "wasn't that great."

Idiot.

My opinion of him seems to drop every day.

…Wow. When did I get so bitter? That's actually kind of scary. Where'd my optimism go? Think…well, if not "happy," think "positive"…

Ah! Here we go. There is a perk to being a bassist. I like Hendrix. Screaming purple to match my hair.

There's my happy thought for the day. Now for "practice."

I put my mind back on the song and knock on Shader's door.

* * *

"Have you seen Aion anywhere?"

I look up from Hendrix and my attempts (and failures) to create some sort of variation in "The Reason" to see Viede standing in my doorway.

"Um…" It's five o'clock. "Not recently. If you see a bonfire, he's probably there."

"A bonfire? I wasn't aware anybody was having one."

"Neither was I," I replied, turning back to my sheet music. "But I told him there was one, and away he went, hallelujah."

"Chrno," Viede sighed, shaking his head.

"I know, I know," I returned his sigh. "So why do you want him anyway?"

"Well, actually, I need to talk to all of you. I need to hire a new temp."

"Huh." I nod and open Hendrix's case. "Not surprised. In fact, to save time, I can tell you exactly what Aion would want in a new temp."

"Really?" Viede's eyebrows rose an inch. "What?"

I put Hendrix in its case and snap it shut. "To use the term he coined, screwability."

The eyebrows go a little higher. "What?"

I straighten up and face him. "Quite simply, how easily and willingly the new temp will-" here come the finger quotations "-"put out.'"

"What?" This one's more incredulous and less confused than the last one.

I shrugged. "Aion's been having sex with every female temp that comes his way." I blink at the shocked look that has taken over Viede's face. "What, you didn't know that?"

He heaves the sigh of the long-suffering manager/babysitter person. "And here I am wondering why we can't seem to keep a temp with us for longer than a week…"

"That's about the length of Aion's attention span."

He looks at me. "That was cruel."

"Truth hurts." I nod.

"Well, anyway," he tries to shrug off the entire "screwing the temp" conversation as though it never happened and very nearly succeeds, "here are the ones that might work." He hands me three sheets of paper.

I riffle through them. "All girls?"

"No one else is interested." He shrugs.

"Wonder why." I take a closer look at one of the papers – this one's different. "It's not like we don't have an attractive woman in the band." If Rizelle showed any more skin on stage, we'd all be arrested for indecent exposure. In for a penny…

I hand Viede the paper I'd been perusing. "This one. Definitely this one."

"Really." He looked at the paper and raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

"She's the only one who didn't put something about how much she absolutely loves the band in the "Special Notes" section."

"And we should hire her because of that?"

I shrug. "Maybe it'll make her impervious to the screwability factor."

Viede flinched. "Please don't mention that."

"Okay." Another shrug. "I still think you should hire her."

He gives a small smile. "Actually, I was thinking of hiring this one as well." He heads off down the hall, presumably to find Shader, or Rizelle, or…somebody.

I smile and pull Clapton out of its case. Viede and I have an unspoken agreement – since he and I are the only people who can be considered "sane" in any way, shape, or form, if we agree on something it goes.

It seems we're getting a new temp soon. A miss Rosette Christopher.

Life should get really interesting really fast.

My smile gets wider as I strum a chord, key of C. I'm ready for a change. Let it come.

* * *

Well, that was fun. n.n As a rabid Chrno fan, I am rather biased against Aion and therefore have no shame when it comes to things like this. The sex talk may diminish some, but I don't think it'll ever leave completely. I'm having too much fun for that. (That, and I just finished _Beloved_, so it all has to go somewhere.)

Here's something to ponder: why do the chapters of my plot-what-plot fics end up longer than my extensively-and-intricately-planned fics? Hell if I know. (That, by the way, is what you get when you cross an elephant and a rhino.)

So I'm tired. This chapter is done, and I will work on the next one…later. Sometime. In the meantime, amuse yourselves and please come back for the next one. Later!


End file.
